At the Jerusalem, page 15
‘In fits and starts.’
‘And Miss Burns, Nurse Trembath?’
‘She’s taking a little.’
‘Good. Now, ladies, isn’t there something we should sing?’
‘Sing?’
‘Sing, yes. What is it people sing on birthdays?’
‘“Happy birthday to you”,’ said Mrs Affery.
‘Of course it is. Shall we all sing?’
The women sang, shakily:
‘Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday, dear Winnie—’
(Matron sang ‘Mrs Hi-ibbs’)
‘—Happy birthday to you.’
‘Thank you. Sit down, all of you.’
Mrs Affery, still standing, stared at Mrs Hibbs. ‘She smiled!’
‘Who smiled?’
‘Mrs Hibbs. She smiled!’
‘Did she, Nurse?’
‘I think she did.’
‘We’ve made her happy.’
Mrs Affery sat down.
‘When she’s a hundred,’ Mrs Crane asked, ‘won’t she hear from the Queen?’
‘Yes, she will. Her Majesty sends telegrams to all her centenarians. The Mayor and Mayoress sent a very thoughtful message today.’
‘Did they, Matron?’
‘Shall I read it out?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Which one is it? Ah, yes. “Mrs Hibbs, The Jerusalem Home. Greetings on reaching your great age. Mayor and Mayoress Ernest and Sylvia Marsh.” ’
‘It is thoughtful.’
‘Thoughtful.’
‘Thoughtful. As Matron said.’
‘The Mayor has promised us a visit this Christmas. He will come to our show. I’ve told him about your singing, Mrs Capes.’
‘Warned him, I hope, Matron.’
‘Not at all. You have a charming voice. Hasn’t she, ladies?’
‘Charming voice.’
‘Charming. That’s right.’
‘Thank you,’ said Mrs Capes. ‘Thank you.’
‘Are we all eating our cake?’ Some of the women answered ‘Yes’; others, mouths full, nodded.
Nurse Barrow had cut Mrs Gadny’s portion into small squares. ‘Eat up, Faith. It’s not like you not to eat cake.’
‘The other ladies – are they coping with their junket?’
‘Yes, Matron.’
‘Is Mrs Gadny eating?’
‘Beginning to.’
Mrs Affery didn’t want her icing.
‘Where’s your sweet tooth?’ asked Mrs O’Blath.
‘Would you like my icing, Mrs Capes?’
‘No, thank you, Maggy.’
Mrs O’Blath went on. ‘If you put it under your pillow, you’ll dream of the man you’re to marry.’
‘It’s wedding cake you do that with, Clever Dick. You want my icing, Mrs Gadny?’
Nurse Barrow said ‘No, thank you.’
‘Leave it on your plate.’
‘Pity to waste it, Matron.’
‘Even so.’
‘Wake up, Winnie. Finish your junket.’
Mrs Gadny said ‘Not here.’
‘Sh, Faith. If you can’t eat, sip your port.’
‘No.’
‘Sh! Sh!’
‘Celia.’
‘Her and her bloody Celia.’
‘Now then, Edith. Sip your port, Faith.’
‘Fill the ladies’ glasses, Nurse Trembath, when you’ve attended to Miss Burns.’
‘Yes, Matron.’
‘Thank you, Matron.’
‘Not here.’
‘Who’s not here?’
‘Celia’s not here, Edie,’ said Mrs Crane.
‘She’s at her harp. Or burning.’
‘Be quiet!’ Nurse Barrow shouted.
‘Miserable bloody face making people bloody miserable—’
‘Mrs Crane, be quiet please,’ Matron ordered.
‘Face like death about the place,’ Miss Trimmer resumed.
‘Winnie looks happier than she does,’ Mrs Temple added.
‘And she can’t barely hear or see—’
‘Ladies! Show some consideration. Remember that this is a party.’
Silence.
Mrs Gadny looked at the black hole as it widened. She blinked. Old women’s faces. Nothing but.
‘No.’
Mouths opened.
‘No.’
One mouth. One black hole. Its warm air drawing her in.
Mrs Gadny screamed.
She would have to use her hands. She would have to fight her way out.
‘Watch it!’ said Mrs Affery, avoiding the claw that came towards her.
The dark cleared. Yellow violets changed into red hair. White tiles became sheets, ironed crisp – grey rings above them.
‘My God,’ said Mrs Capes. ‘My God.’
Nurse Barrow pinned Mrs Gadny’s hands to her sides. Mrs Gadny groaned.
‘Look at her. Mad. Mad.’
‘Mad. Mad. She is. Mad.’
‘An animal. An animal.’
‘Get rid of her.’
‘Send her away. Send her to a bin.’
‘Bedlam’d do for her.’
‘Stay in your places, ladies. Nurse Barrow will attend to her.’
Nurse Barrow maintained her grip. Mrs Gadny’s head moved from side to side, her tongue over her lower lip.
‘Nurse should smack her face. One good back-hander,’ said Mrs O’Blath.
‘Stand up, Faith.’
Mrs Gadny allowed Nurse Barrow to lift her.
‘Kick her arse.’
‘Get rid of her. Throw her out.’
‘Spoiling the party.’
‘Spoiling the fun.’
‘Come now, Faith. We’ll go to your room. The two of us. We’ll go to your room. Together. We’ll go. Come now.’
Nurse Barrow led Mrs Gadny out.
‘The day was happy until—’
‘Now, now, Mrs Crane. Nurses, pour the sherries and ports.’
The nurses filled the glasses.
‘I’ll go tiddly.’
‘Any more and I’ll sing.’
‘Careful, I’m not a scarlet woman.’
‘Warms you, port.’
‘We need a drink after her.’
‘Shall we all read Mrs Hibbs the verses on the cards we sent her?’
‘That’s a nice idea, Matron,’ said Mrs Capes.
‘Who’s to begin? Mrs Affery?’
‘Can’t read. Never could. Or write.’
‘Oh, yes. Of course. Shall we go round the table, then? You first, Mrs O’Blath. You read your card.’
‘With pleasure, Matron.’
Mrs O’Blath put on her reading glasses; took her card from the group. She rose. She cleared her throat.
‘Before you begin, my dear, would you wake Mrs Hibbs, please Nurse?’
Nurse Perceval nudged Mrs Hibbs.
‘Right, Mrs O’Blath. Begin.’
Mrs O’Blath cleared her throat a second time. She read slowly, separating each word;
‘You who have travelled on Life’s troubled way,
Whose hair the years have turned a gentle grey,
Smile your sweet smile this happy, special day,
And drive all cares and worries far away.’
The women clapped enthusiastically.
‘Lovely words.’
‘It’s beautiful.’
‘Well chosen, Mrs O’Blath. Are you ready to read, Mrs Temple?’
‘Yes, Matron.’
Nurse Perceval spoke into Mrs Hibbs’s ear. ‘Did you enjoy your poem?’
*
—A walnut whirl.
The voice coming from the hole.
—A dozen soft centres.
A fur.
Not that face, creature’s face. Tom’s face:
One brown eye. There! No, two brown eyes. He had a scar, not an eye missing. There! Two eyes and a scar. And wide nostrils. Almost a boxer’s nose.
There!
No. No photos.
‘Gone.’
Brown eyes, scar, nose—
‘Tom.’
The name.
Was she of use because she could cook, sew, run a house? Because she lit the fire, laid out his slippers, poured his beer? Polished his boots so that he looked down at his face?
He only mentioned love the once. Or did he? The night he made her hands go sticky. It was ‘Doll’ at the end.
‘Doll.’
What you come to.
—Tell her.
‘What you—’
—The best I could find. I visited several.
—Tell her about the others.
—They had very old people in them.
—Senile, weren’t they? Tell her.
—Fossils.
—The Jerusalem’s only women, isn’t it?
—Yes. Your kind.
‘My kind?’
—I’d say so. Will you come and look?
‘No.’
—Tomorrow?
‘No.’
—Stop playing the martyr.
‘Fill in the papers.’
—You must see the place.
‘No. Papers.’
—You must…
She had her doubts about Celia. As well as Tom. Celia was for ever collecting at her office; rattling her tin.
You lived for years, you never thought—
She hadn’t looked down at her breasts in the house the way she’d done lately. Oh, no. No cause to. The veins were veins. Celia was Celia and Tom was Tom.
And no questions, unless it was the weather, were we winning the war, was it the day for Mrs Barber and her Rose’s bath—
Celia pitied anyone and everyone. That was why she stayed in the house. There was strain in her voice that last year, definitely. Her patience was running out.
No doubts before.
Some peace—
When she stood by the door, St John seemed to be looking at her.
Here was the pond. Not the pond on the common, where the two tarts stood, the pond in the park. Ducklings, as it was spring, guarded by their mothers.
—We’ll be friends, won’t we, Michael?
Nothing.
—The way you snuggled up to me in the car! You let me hold you while you slept.
Nothing.
—Your mother doesn’t love you, Michael, she dared to say. I love you, though. I could be a sort of mother to you. I could take you to the zoo. Have you been to the Tower?
Nothing.
—Celia would go with me…
—Her book.
—Her book, yes. Your sister bullies you, Michael, and your mother, your mother…
She had to be careful what she said.
—Give me your hand.
—No.
—No?
—No.
—I’ll look after you…
Michael shifted to the end of the bench.
—No! he shouted.
—Oh, Michael.
Michael’s eyes widened.
—I’m not crying, Michael. It’s the wind. Can’t you feel it on your face? It’s the wind.
She stood in front of him. She leaned over to kiss him. His fists pummelled her belly; his foot hit her knee.
‘Oh, Michael.’
What you come to.
This is what you come to: you live for seventy years and you find one night you’re stuck in a room, in a chair, and your body’s beneath you, waiting for the chill to strike it, till your eyes see only black and no sound to remind you.
You’ve memories of rooms and faces and all manner of things but they go as quickly as they come.
How long before she was nothing? Years?
She would sit for years.
If I hurt myself, I’ll cry—
She beat against the wall. Her hands and her bare feet met the stone. She dropped exhausted to the floor. Blood flowed from grazes on her knuckles and from a small cut on her right foot.
Her eyes could as well be glass.
*
Miss Trimmer rushed into the dining-hall, waving an envelope. ‘I met the young man in the corridor. Her son.’
‘Stepson.’ Mrs Capes corrected her.
‘Stepson. What do you think he gave me?’
‘A kiss.’
‘A pat on your bum.’
‘A quart of stout.’
‘Twins.’
‘You are a dirty bitch sometimes, Queenie. You haven’t guessed.’
‘A bunch of grapes.’
‘Flowers.’
‘I wouldn’t have your memories. What am I shaking in my hand? He gave me the photos.’
‘What photos?’
‘What he took. When he was here that Sunday.’
‘Those photos!’
‘Those photos!’
‘Yes. Those photos.’
‘Show them.’
‘Let’s see them.’
‘Hold yourselves. Hold your horses. He give me eight copies. So there’s one for each of us and one to spare. Put your hands out. Here’s yours, Queenie.’
‘I say! Look at us!’
‘Nell.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Alice.’
‘Thanks, Edie. Well!’
‘Maggy.’
‘Thank you. Oh, dear!’
‘Mrs Capes.’
‘Thank you, Miss Trimmer.’
‘Yours, Peggy.’
‘I’m grateful to you, Edie. Good God!’
‘Two for me.’
‘Look at her! All eyes and gums!’
‘You mean me?’
‘What a sight!’
Mrs Crane could only make out her nose.
‘The best part of your face,’ said Miss Trimmer.
‘I can’t see Mrs Capes in this picture.’
‘I was with Mrs Gadny, Mrs Temple. It was while I was friends with her.’
*
‘Doctor Gettrup and the specialist reached the same conclusion.’
‘I see.’
‘If she responds to treatment, she’ll recover.’
‘Where is this place?’
‘In Kent.’
‘I see.’
‘It’s modern. It has more facilities.’
‘I see.’
‘The specialist said she must go there as soon as possible. While there’s hope.’
‘Yes. Very well. I see.’
‘You’re wise, Mr Gadny… Are you fond of her?’
‘No, Matron. I can’t say I am. In all honesty. I want to help her, of course. I’m not close to her, Matron.’
‘Not the answer I expected.’
‘I’ve learnt to be honest. I thank my father for that.’
*
‘They called it a party, Celia. A party! Pigs at a trough would eat cleaner. Their mouths, love. And her mouth, a hole in front of me, I was dizzy, I fell… They’re filth, aren’t they? Everyone is. We all come to… All there is for any of us… Trash, waste. I said. I said…’
There! The high window. The bed.
‘You’re white. You’re drained. Oh, love.’
Celia coughed.
‘Blood’s gone from you.’
She sobbed into a pillow. The joy, the relief.
‘There, Faith. Susy’s with you.’
She looked into the nurse’s face. ‘I feel so happy.’
‘Happy!’
‘Yes. I feel so better, Susy.’ She smiled. ‘My heart’s breaking.’
‘Is it?
‘Yes. Yes.’
‘How are your bandages? Tight enough?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re making Susy’s blouse wet.’
‘I don’t care.’
*
‘She won’t touch me. I don’t want her clammy black paws near me.’
‘Why didn’t you say so to Matron, Queenie?’
‘She would’ve taken it wrong. She wouldn’t have seen my meaning.’
‘Coward.’
‘I’ve heard you lot go on about the darkies. But you all said “Yes” to having one look after you—’
‘So did you.’
‘I’m quite aware. I didn’t want to disgrace myself. I’m not the only hypocrite—’
‘I’ve no objection to Nurse Wilkins—’
‘Maybe you haven’t, Nell. What about Edie, though? And Alice? And Mrs Capes?’
‘You’ll just have to put up with her.’
‘I grant you they’re no worse than Jews—’
‘My husband, Mrs Crane,’ said Mrs Gross, ‘was a Jew. He bore all the marks. He may not have practised his faith but he was a good husband. He was a good husband.’ Mrs Gross rose from the table and walked slowly out of the dining-hall.
*
‘In the country.’
‘Not with Mrs Barber, Matron. She’s dead.’
‘Yes. Not with her. In another Home.’
‘I’m happy here. I’m content.’
And she was beaming to prove it.
‘You can have a rest. A holiday.’
‘A holiday.’
‘In the country.’
*
Nurse Trembath was suddenly firm. ‘Miss Trimmer, I must put the screens round her. She has to be washed.’
‘Come on, Edie.’
‘Poor Peg. Poor Peg.’
‘Mrs Gross, ask Cook to brew some tea.’
Miss Trimmer’s hands were at her mouth. Her shoulders were heaving.
‘Mr Parsdoe from the General will be with us any minute.’
‘Edie. Edie.’
‘There’s bound to be a post-mortem. Go along, Miss Trimmer.’
Miss Trimmer broke away from Mrs Gross. She grasped the rail at the end of Miss Burns’s bed. ‘Why couldn’t you bloody die? You bloody staring great thing.’
‘Edie—’
‘I’d bloody strangle the thing given half the chance.’
‘Take her away, Mrs Gross.’
‘Edie, come on—’
‘Before I lose my temper.’
*
‘Susy’s come… You’ve dressed!’
‘I dressed myself to go. I’m packed.’
‘That was clever of you.’
‘I powdered my face.’
‘So you did.’
‘I’d been crying.’
‘To cover up.’
‘I had to powder. I’m sad at leaving.’
‘You’ll be back.’
‘Yes. You left the door open. I went and washed. I looked down at the bowl.’
‘What’s the box?’
‘Chocolates. Do you want them? I think they’ve melted.’
‘I’ll throw them out.’
‘I did my doings. Because of the journey.’
‘That’s good… I’ve two presents for you.’
‘Presents?’
‘This is from me. It’s a book.’
